Remember the Name
by lady of scarlet
Summary: His name was scrawled on a little placard by the door, so it wasn't as though he didn't know who he was. His name was Jim and he worked in the IT department at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Gen. Crack. Amnesia!Fic. Moriarty POV.


**Title:** Remember the Name

**Rating: **FRT

**Warnings:** Gen, language, violent tendencies, medical inaccuracies, crack, spoilers for 1.03 The Great Game, a bit of canon Moriarty/Molly, and a splash of implied one-sided Moriarty/Sherlock. Gen.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.

**AN:** Amnesiac!Moriarty, because why the hell not, right? Yup. This just happened. Come to think of it, it has probably happened a dozen times before in this fandom. _All _things exist in the Sherlock fandom. But still, I hope you enjoy this random, ridiculous, medically inaccurate little piece. (Also, I tried so hard with the timeline-forgive me.) Huge thanks to oroburos69 for the beta!

…

He woke to a woman's shrill, panicked voice. His first instinct was to make her shut the hell up by shoving something sharp and pointy into her larynx, but as soon as he opened his eyes to find a suitable object for doing so, he realised there were more important matters at hand.

"Oh god, sir, sir? Are you all right?"

"Should we call someone? We should call someone. Shouldn't we?"

"No no, wait, he's waking up!"

A throbbing pain forced itself into his conscious awareness as he attempted to sit. A hand at his back stabilized him. His blurred vision gradually cleared to reveal two older women and a young boy standing over him.

"He's okay! Oh thank goodness," the woman with the impossibly shrill voice said while rubbing his back in a gesture that seemed like it should be reassuring, but wasn't. She laughed a little nervously. "You're okay, right? No harm done?"

"I..." he started.

"Because Christopher didn't mean to hit you or anything. It was an accident, wasn't it honey?" The woman turned to the boy who was presumably her son.

The boy nodded vehemently. The sun was far too bright. Why was he sitting on the grass? Who were these people?

"Who...?" he started again.

"I'm sorry!" the kid proclaimed suddenly, bursting into loud, obnoxious tears. The crying child's baseball bat fell to the ground and for a brief and bewildering moment he considered pummelling the boy and his mother with it because, good god, did they never shut up?

"He really is," the other woman piped up. "My nephew meant no harm by it. We were going to call an ambulance, but you woke up so quickly... Do you need to go to hospital, um—it's Jim, right?" she asked, pointing to a rectangular piece of plastic pinned to his shirt. "Or is there someone I can call for you?"

Hospital? "No," he said on instinct, peering at his nametag and running his fingers over the words. He worked at a hospital. He didn't need to go to one, he didn't think. The headache was fading quickly. Mostly he wanted them to go away. Far, far away. "I'll be fine. I think."

He stood a bit unsteadily and made his way to a park bench. The mother began pestering him again, "Can I help at all?"

He rubbed his face tiredly, looking around the park. "You and your lovely little offspring can do our species a favour, and take a dive off that bridge," he suggested politely, pointing to said bridge, because even if it was only a short walk from here, they were likely stupid enough to still require directions.

The mother made an offended little sound, grabbing her child by the arm and pulling him away. Far far away. He watched them flee across the bridge and was slightly disappointed when they failed to jump.

He stared down at his nametag again. His name was Jim and he worked in the IT department at St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Jim.

_Jim._

…

It was easy enough finding his way back to work.

He paid the cabbie with the money in his pocket—cash, only cash, no cards. A lot of cash, actually. Maybe he was rich. He couldn't quite recall.

It was strange, this sense of forgetting. Things felt familiar, but he couldn't remember any specifics. His thoughts were all hazy and confused. From the 'accident' probably, when that little brat hit him in the head with a baseball. Maybe he really should go get checked out.

He considered it for a long time, sitting in his chair, in his office, on the second floor of the hospital he worked in. His name was scrawled on a little placard by the door, so it wasn't as though he didn't know who he was. He just couldn't remember...things.

But what if this weird feeling wasn't just from being whacked in the head? Could be anything, really. What if he was on some sort of narcotic?

He didn't particularly feel like a druggy, nor did he have any marks on his body suggesting he was, and he certainly didn't have any suspicious substances on him right now.

But he had all that money, just folded neatly and tucked into his pocket. Where could he possibly have gotten that from? He couldn't be making that much money in this job, there was just no way. His wardrobe made it very apparent that he wasn't well paid. And why would he carry so much cash around with him? That had to be suspicious, right?

So, drugs. That was the only logical solution. Either he sold drugs on the side and had just made a sale, or he did drugs on the side and was just about to make a purchase. If that was the case, involving a doctor could get him caught, then he'd probably go to prison and lose his job at the hospital, which he was pretty sure he wouldn't want to do if he was in the right frame of mind. Was this an excuse? Absolutely. But it was a plausible one, and Jim felt quite strongly that involving a doctor would be a bad idea.

He'd been staring at his computer for the last hour, and he tried to fix a colleague's email problems earlier, but he found he didn't actually fancy computers that much, as it turned out.

Computers were boring. His colleague's encrypted emails were far more interesting.

It seemed that 'Kenny' was blackmailing someone. Jim knew that blackmail was a shitty thing to do and he should probably tell someone about it or something, but the only thing Jim could think about was what an awful job Kenny was doing of it. His encryption was sloppy, his threats unimaginative, and his ambitions were lacking, truth be told. Kenny only wanted a hundred pounds for his silence? It was easily worth six hundred—more, if played right. It was just so...disappointing. He wanted to fix it.

A knock on the door jolted him out of his thoughts. It was already open when he swivelled around in his chair. A young woman stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, managing to make the casual pose seem awkward and forced.

"Hi again," she said, ducking her head a bit and offering a shy smile. "Sorry for bothering you so much lately. You're probably busy. Oh!" she started, suddenly standing up straight and looking for all the world like a frightened deer. "Of course you are! You've got that project. I'm so sorry—never mind, I'll drop by tomorrow."

Jim stood to stop her. He wasn't sure why. She was kind of odd, but in an endearing way. Pale and plain and socially awkward. But he had the strangest inkling that she could become something beautiful and powerful given the right influence and a dash of lipstick.

Noticing his movement, she ceased hers and looked up at him with a mixture of hope and uncertainty in her eyes. She knew him. Obviously. And she visited often, so he must know her quite well. Plus, the posture...she just oozed infatuation. For Jim? Was this an office romance he was involved in? Hm.

"It's okay," Jim assured her, careful to make no sudden movements lest she dart off like a wild animal and get hit by a truck or something. "I'm never too busy for you..." He glanced at her nametag slowly, taking in the rest of her as well and lingering at her breasts for just the right amount of time to make it seem like he wasn't just stalling to read her first name past the folds of her white coat. Ah, there it was. "..._Molly_."

"I knew it," she whispered with what sounded like relief.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," Molly said. She beamed at him. "Well, we didn't really get a chance to chat since Thursday, and I just wanted to make sure that you weren't offended—Sherlock's like that with everyone."

The name provoked a flash of disjointed memory and a rush of excitement. "Who?"

"Oh, you're right, best not to dwell."

Jim shook his head, the moment passed. "Exactly."

She shifted nervously, staring at her shoes as she said very quickly, "Would you like to have tea with me? Or coffee, of course, if you want coffee—I like coffee, too. I mean...if you aren't still too busy with that project of yours and would like to have a hot beverage with me, I would...like that. That would be nice. If you wanted. You don't have to. Well, obviously you don't _have_ to, it's not like I'd _force_ you to drink a cup of tea or anything." She giggled uncomfortably. "It's just, well, since we didn't get to have our date this week, I thought...maybe you'd still want..."

"Of course," Jim said, stopping the trainwreck of a conversation before it got any worse, despite the fact that he actually felt strangely partial toward the idea of trainwrecks—but that wasn't the point. "We've already gone out, you and I. So...we're together, aren't we? That means we could have tea together whenever we wanted, yes?"

She nodded emphatically. "I'm so sorry, I just get so nervous—I'm not very used to this. I mean, it's not like I haven't gone on dates in _years_ or anything—I'm not some crazy spinster—but not, you know, _often_."

She was just so...cute. He was torn between wanting to push her into oncoming traffic and keeping her as a pet.

"Molly Hooper, would you like to have tea with me?" Jim asked, offering her his hand. She smiled and took it, thankfully without attempting a verbal response. "So it was...interesting, meeting Sherlock," Jim ventured. "Tell me more about him?"

Molly grinned again, stars in her eyes, and Jim wondered if maybe he wasn't the one Molly was infatuated with after all. Or maybe Jim was the infatuated one. His sudden desire to know everything about this man was...intriguing, to say the least.

The sun was low beyond the grey blinds of his little office window. This hazy feeling would dissipate soon enough, surely. He'd sleep it off. His head didn't even hurt anymore. It would be fine.

…

It wasn't fine.

Jim had been wandering aimlessly for an hour after dropping Molly off at home. He figured that it only made sense that he'd live somewhere close to work. Clearly, he was mistaken. _Nothing_ looked familiar at all.

He had to live somewhere, didn't he? No keys, no wallet, no phone. He really should have thought this through before leaving the office. He and Molly were obviously not at the point in their relationship where he'd be invited to stay over—god, wouldn't _that_ be awkward.

He'd seen dozens of hotels on the cab ride into downtown and yet there didn't appear to be a single one within walking distance now that he needed it. He'd just have to find another cab.

His frustration was nearing its peak when a man suddenly pulled him into the mouth of an alleyway. A very tall, very physically imposing man, with a prominent scar along his jaw and crazy-murderer written all over him.

"Everything is in place, boss," the man said, voice low. "Just waiting on your orders. I tried to keep the flunkies from roughing up the doctor too much, but you know how they get. Took me forever to track you down, by the way. What are you doing all the way over here?"

Jim stepped back to regain as much personal space as he could without being too obvious and offending the bloke. "I'm sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else."

"Huh?" the psycho-murderer responded.

"My name's Jim," he explained calmly. "I work in IT. I'm barely a notch above intern right now, so I'm most definitely not anyone's boss."

"What are you on about?"

Jim smiled in the most inoffensive way he could manage. He'd have to speak in shorter sentences for this one. "Listen, no need for this to get out of hand. You seem nice enough, mate. Let's just call it a night and go our separate ways, shall we?"

The look of confusion on the man's face shifted abruptly into realisation, which Jim hoped meant he'd figured out he had the wrong person cornered in a dark alley. "Oh! Right, sorry boss—I mean, Jim. From IT." He winked exaggeratedly.

Jim's brow furrowed. "Yes, well. Good luck finding whoever you're looking for." He turned to _very_ casually walk away, but the man grabbed his arm. Jim was reasonably certain that his life would be flashing before his eyes if he could remember any of it right now.

"Wait, you're leaving?" the man asked, then quickly released his grip with a wide-eyed look that couldn't possibly be fear, but damn if it wasn't close. "Which is fine, of course," he amended. "It's just that you said we had to keep a tight schedule and I already called for the transport. It should be—oh, here."

A sleek black Audi pulled up next to the curb a few feet away and it occurred to Jim that maybe he _was_ someone's boss after all. The IT thing might be a cover for a larger drug-cartel-gang-type operation that Jim was apparently involved in.

The bloke he'd been sure was going to off him a moment ago rushed to open the door for him.

Well, how about that? He had his very own psycho-murderer. Jim couldn't help but grin.

"Right," Jim agreed. "The schedule. Okay." Despite his better judgement, Jim got into the backseat of the car, quickly joined by his charming new employee—or was he an old employee? Probably not polite to ask. "So," he began once the car had started to move, "we're off to sell the drugs, then?"

Jim's employee turned a confused expression to him, eyebrow raised. "What drugs?"

"You mean this isn't a drug thing?" Jim asked, honestly surprised that he was wrong, because what else could it possibly be?

"Uh. It can be, I guess. If you want it to. I can make a call. Oh, hey, here's your mobile back," he said, handing Jim a phone as sleek as the car they were driving in. "Took extra good care of it just like you asked. Didn't leave my sight."

"Yes, my phone. Good." This single device could hold all the answers he was looking for...if he only knew the password.

"Well," came the man's voice after a long moment. "Aren't you going to make the call? We're cutting it pretty close this time."

"About that..." Jim said, sliding the very password-protected mobile into his pocket. "I want someone else to do it. I, uh, have other things on my mind at the moment. I trust you can arrange everything that requires arranging?"

"Sure, sure. No problem. Oh, and I'm sorry boss—uh, _Jim_, but what drugs in particular were you wanting to sell?"

"Hmm? Ah, never mind that," Jim said, waving it off. "Just making sure you were paying attention. I mean, drugs? Really? That would just be ludicrous."

"Yes sir, of course. That would be ridiculous!" He apparently took Jim's statement as a cue, and started laughing raucously as though Jim had said something terribly funny, which, obviously, he hadn't.

"Not that funny," Jim cautioned.

"Right." Jim's psycho-murderer cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. Jim fiddled with the window control switch, contemplating this latest series of bizarre events and deciding that maybe the life of Jim-from-IT wasn't so dull after all.

Power. He could get used to this.

…

"Do explain the plan to me," Jim requested as they walked toward a public swimming pool. It wasn't quite the fancy locale Jim had been envisioning on the way here, which was a bit disappointing. But this did seem to be a business trip of some sort, so he _probably_ didn't live here, and that was reassuring.

It was after-hours, so the pool was closed, and Jim was pretty sure they were trespassing. Illegally. Because Jim did illegal things like that.

"But you already know, don't you? It's your plan," his employee pointed out. Jim had taken to calling him 'my good man', which Jim's good man didn't seem to have a problem with, and, in fact, even responded to. It was fascinating. Like training a dog.

"Of course _I_ know," Jim said tiredly. "I just want to make sure that _you_ know what you're doing. Can't afford any slip-ups, now can we?"

"No sir. Well, uh, I'll be set up with my boys in the rafters above the pool. Then once Sherlock shows up and you tell the doctor to come out, we'll be waiting on your signal to blow up the vest—but don't worry, nobody's going to shoot prematurely, not until _you've_ signalled me and _I've_ signalled them. I've taken all necessary precautions to insure The Sicily Incident doesn't happen again."

Sherlock was going to be there? And he needed a doctor? That sounded pretty serious. Exactly what kind of criminal delivered medical assistance to the injured? Maybe he had this all wrong. But blowing things up sounded fairly criminal, right? And fun, now that he thought about it.

Jim's good man was staring at him, evidently awaiting a response. "Excellent," Jim affirmed. "And I'll be...?"

"I don't know. What will you be doing, boss?"

"Well, important things, obviously. Very important criminal things. You don't need to know."

"Yes sir. The equipment's all set up and waiting for you in the locker room, and your suit's laid out, fresh from the drycleaner's."

"My suit?" _Oh._ A suit. Jim liked that idea. "Of course, my _suit_," Jim declared, content in the knowledge that he was not, in fact, the questionably-dressed miscreant his current clothing suggested. "Thank you, my good man, I'll be taking my leave then."

With a worried and slightly perplex expression, his companion said, "Good luck boss," and sounded like he _really_ meant it. As though Jim needed any _luck._

...

Things were already starting to feel more normal. As he made his way toward the locker-room, he wondered what that said about him, if _this_ felt normal. No, more than normal. It almost felt _right._

The locker room did, indeed, hold the promised equipment—including multiple computer monitors and a canvas bag of unidentified devices and a whole lot of weapons. With a little searching, the suit came into view. Gorgeous fabric, crisp lines, ironed to perfection.

It looked even better on.

A tiny beep sounded behind him as he tightened his tie and rolled down his collar.

When he glanced at the monitor, he saw a man walking up to the doors. Tall, dark curls, razor-sharp cheekbones, tailored suit, confident—no, _arrogant_ posture.

So damn sexy. Jim wanted to break him.

In that moment, he realised something, his memories coming back not in a rush, but in a sudden explosive _bang_ inside his skull.

He knew precisely who he really was:

_Moriarty._

He brushed his hands down the front of his suit and smirked. It was time to bring the world to its knees. Starting with one man. Yes, this felt _exactly _right.

…


End file.
